CHAPTER X.
THE BETRAYER AND HIS VICTIM.
As the reader may have some curiosity to know something more of Acton Goldfinch, an individual destined to fill a dark page in this history, we will return to the splendid apartment of Ellen Douglas.— Ere he entered her presence, Ellen had resumed her reclining posture on the settee, from which, as the door opened, she languidly raised her head to give him a faint welcome. As he advanced to her side, the light, falling full upon him, revealed a young man of slight but handsome figure, some three and twenty years of age, with a countenance peculiarly calculated to arrest and rivet the attention of the most casual observer. Though slightly effeminate, it was comely, much beyond what is generally seen in one of the male sex—possessing that singular beauty which is far more apt to fascinate than please the fastidious. His features were fine and regular, with dark, eloquent black eyes, capable of a soft and languishing, a bright and merry, or dark and piercing expression, according to the varying moods of their possessor. A rather high, though somewhat narrow forehead, a slightly aquiline nose, a pertectly formed mouth, filled with a beautiful set of ivory teeth, and a neatly curved and well rounded chin, gave him a physiognomy that would have been prepossessing as it was handsome, were it not for a something in the expression, seen at intervals, like a light cloud passing athwart the sun, which warned one to be chary in bestowing confidence. His complexion was dark, but very clear, almost transparent, adding much to his beauty; and as he raised his hat, he displayed a comely-shaped head, covered with a profusion of dark brown, natural curls. He was richly but rather gaudily dressed, nearly every article differing in color, though each the brightest and most showy of its kind; while a profuse display of jewelry, all incompatible with good taste, proved his vanity paramount to his judgment. And this, if he had any at all, might be set down as the ruling passion of Acton Goldfinch—for to gratify his vanity, he had been led into those very excesses which were fast and surely hastening him to his own destruction. Unlike his father, he was not far-seeing, and lacked the cunning, shrewdness and intellect to be a great schemer. He was a villain, but not a deep one; and this not on the score of principle—for in this he was deficient— but because he lacked the mental power necessary to make him such. Honor of a certain kind he had—a sort of fashionable honor—which causes disolute young men to pay their gambling debts, though many times at the expense of such as do them menial services. Honesty he had to a certain degree—insomuch, that having enough of his own, he never thought to steal from others. He was benevolent, too, in some respects—that is, he could and would give freely whenever his fancy prompted and his vanity seemed likely to reward him; but he would go no farther-- the usual claims which suffering penury has upon our sympathies, having no effect upon his. If he had any veneration, it was for the man who could best handle a pack of cards, make the largest single count at billiards, or prove champion in a pugillistic encounter. In short, his mind was gross and selfish, and adapted rather to sensual than intellectual enjoyments. Yet he could be remarkably fascinating to the opposite sex—too much so for their own good—for his consummate vanity and unprincipled nature, ever led him to take advantage of their innocence whenever opportunity favored. It was to gratify his vanity he completed the ruin of Ellen Douglas; and it was alone her beauty, of which it was his pride to boast among his associates, that had thus far kept him from utterly deserting her. Perhaps the reader, acquainted with the localities of New York, and knowing Acton so vain, will be surprised he did not board Ellen in a more fashionable quarter of the city; but for this he had his reasons, of which it is unnecessary we should speak. To all the qualities, good and bad, of Acton Goldfinch, we must add one other, more dangerous than all the rest. If he had a countenance and an eye to fascinate, he certainly had a voice to charm, whose every intonation was melody itself— and this was by far the most dangerous weapon with which he assailed the citadel of virtue. Possessing a good flow of language, he could talk for hours, in a way to please, soothe and enchant, like the music of a murmuring stream—and yet never advance one grand or original idea, or inculcate one highly moral principle. But the mass of mankind look more to the manner of delivery than the sentiment; and hence a gem of thought, plainly spoken, will make less impression than a stale idea brilliantly uttered. In this latter virtue lay the power of Acton Goldfinch, and he both knew and used it. "Well, Ellen," he said, in a bland but carless tone, "you are looking disconsolate— how is this?" "I seldom look happy," was the grave reply; "or if I do, my looks belie my heart." "Not happy," he rejoined, pertly, stroking his chin with an air of self-complaisance, "and a rich man's son for your lover! Fie, Ellen, fie!" "I would he were a poor man's son," said Ellen. "Why so?" "I could then hope." "Hope? poh! will you never cease of that—always harping on the same theme. You have the reality before you, so for what need you hope?" "That he who sits beside me, will redeem his many broken vows, and in part repair the wrong he has done me." "Nonsense, Ellen—what has put you to thinking of this again?" "It is never absent from my mind." "Well, well," rejoined Acton, hurriedly, and seeming somewhat embarrassed; "all in good time, Ellen—all in good time." "You procrastinate," said Ellen, fixing her dark eyes upon him. "You even use less protestation of compliance than formerly." "Poh! you mistake, girl." "No," cried Ellen, with vehemence, grasping his arm somewhat wildly, "I do not mistake! You have some other plan in view—you intend to desert me!" "No, on my honor!" returned Acton, in some confusion: "I tell you you mistake." "And I tell you I do not mistake!" rejoined Ellen, more vehemently than ever, now fully roused to a sense of meditated baseness on the part of her lover. "And can you for a moment, my dear, beloved Ellen, think I would desert you? No, on my knees, I swear—" "Hold!" interrupted the other: "swear no more, Acton Goldfinch! for you have broken oaths enough already to damn one far less guilty than yourself. Swear no more, I tell you, for the thought of it sickens and fills me with horror! On your bended knees, calling Heaven to witness, you swore, three years ago, to make me your wife. A dozen times since have you done the same thing—and yet what am I now? A thing to be loathed and despised by all virtuous people—a poor human wretch, destined to fill a guilty grave! Oh! Acton, why did you come to me, when I was happy, and beeause I loved you and trusted you, coldly and cruelly betray my confidence, and put a stain upon my name that an ocean of repentant tears can never wash away? Why did you come to me, I say, when I was happy, and with insiduous arts forever ruin my peace of mind, making of me a wretch that abhors her own existence? You knew I loved you, wildly and madly—so madly, oh God! that I forsook my own home and my beloved mother at your request! For you I disregarded the righteous counsels of one whom, but for you, I would have drained my heart of its blood sooner than so offended. And what have been the awful consequences which I have struggled to bear for your sake? Look at them, Acton, as I do, with a quailing eye! My mother is in her grave— her broken heart crumbling to dust— a noble heart, broken by the conduct of me, her daughter, because she loved me more than life. And I—I—" she fairly screamed in frenzy, griping his arm fiercely, and letting her dark eyes burn into his, that quailed before their powerful glance and sunk to the ground—"I broke that heart for you—for you—who in return only blighted mine, as the frost does the flower, and made me the victim of false-sworn vows! Look at the three years of suffering I have borne—suffering beyond the power of mortal tongue to describe—suffering full of wo unatterable, ruined hopes, corroding remorse, and a guilty conscience, still made guiltier by the damning deeds of daily perpetration! Think of it, Acton—look upon it—and let the thought harrow up your soul to a redeeming virtue! Remember all this has been done for you— for love only—by one you once basely betrayed, and have now planned to desert and cast away, as we throw chaff upon the wind!" Ellen paused, and gazing upon her trembling lover for a moment—now trembling with fear rather than regret—she relaxed her grasp, sank slowly back on her seat, and covered her face, as if to shut out the horrid scenes her memory had call
ed up from the eventful past. For a few minutes Acton made no reply, and for the simple reason he knew not what to say. What he had just heard he felt was true; and he was completely confounded at Ellen's seeming knowledge of what he had supposed a profound secret, and overawed by her wild, impetuous manner. Never had he seen her thus but once, and that the time already referred to by herself, when she forced from him a solemn vow to make her his. Three years had since passed, and she had been to him a quiet, docile being; and he had fancied himself secure—that her spirit was crushed— the lion of her nature forever subdued. But now was he suddenly made aware of his mistake, and saw himself entangled in a perplexity whence there appeared little chance of extrication. What was to be done! He fain would have lied on, but she had stepped his oaths and would not receive his vows, and therefore had made him dumb of protestations. Should he come out boldly, own all, and brave her to her teeth? He feared to do so, and yet this might produce the desired effect. At all events, he resolved to try duplicity once more, and should this again fail him, he would be guided by circumstances. Having resolved, he turned to her, and gently taking her hand, which she passively permitted, he, in his blandest and most musical tones, said: "Ellen, dearest Ellen—idol of my heart— my soul's adoration—you wrong me! What you have said of suffering on your own part, I know to be true; but it seems you have overlooked mine. I too have suffered under the vigilant eyes of a suspicious father, lest our secret should be discovered, and either I be ruined in prospects, or all intercourse between us be broken off forever. How can you accuse me, for a moment, of thinking to desert you?—you whom I love almost to madness, and for whom I have done so much. Look around you, upon the splendors of this apartment! Is there a thing here that was not purchased with my money?—and would I have bestowed it thus, had I not loved you?" "Take back all you have given me!" said Ellen, sternly, uncovering her pale face, and fixing her dark, determined, unquailing eye upon his; "take back all, strip me of every thing I possess, clothe me in rags, feed me on bread and water, but make me your lawful wife, and I will bear all without a murmur—will never reproach you more—nay, will daily bless you, and do all that within me lies to render you happy. You say you love me! Give me the proof of your hand and I will be happy—Or if not happy," she added, quickly, correcting herself, "I will at least make no complaints, and will ever greet your coming with a smile, your going forth with a blessing." "But," hesitated Acton, "if I were to do this, and it should reach my father's ears—" "But it shall not," interrupted Ellen. "There is no necessity of making the affair public. We can be privately married, and none be the wiser of our secret." "Well, I will see what can be done." "Then you must see quickly, for I have set my heart upon it, and it must speedily be accomplished. Ay, for that matter, a license can be procured, and the ceremony performed at once. Why should we delay?" "Certainly," returned Acton, stammering; "but you see—the fact is—I—that is—" "Hold!" exclaimed Ellen, springing to her feet and gazing upon him with the dignified calmness of suppressed passion. "Hold, Acton Goldfinch, ere the love I have borne you turns to hate, and these hands do a deed time can never undo! I see it all! You do not love me, and never did—all your false oaths to the contrary notwithstanding. And now, Acton Goldfinch, you almost hate me—and for why? Because you fancy I stand in your way. Well, sir, you fancy truly. I do and will stand in your way, so long as I am cursed with an existence; and if you farther wrong me, my sinful spirit shall rise from my grave to haunt you. Now mark me, and ponder well on all I say! for not one word will be spoken that has not been carefully weighed. You are on the point, or at least you think so, of forming a wealthy alliance. Nay, start not, and use not thy lying tongue, for you see I know all! The daughter of Calvin Morton is no small prize; and I can hardly wonder you should seek to cast off for her, one whose artless innocence you succeeded in betraying, and whose now blasted reputation would, as your wife, add nothing to your besetting sin of vanity. I do not wonder, I say, you seek to cast her off for another. But this may not be. Edith Morton, I learn, is an angelic creature of pure virtue. She must not link herself to one who has proved himself a villain! Besides, I, who now stand before you a polluted wretch, was once, perhaps, as good aud pure as she. Who made me what I am? You, Acton Goldfinch—you—and to you I look for such reparation as lies in your power." "But surely, Ellen, you would not blight my fair prospects?" pleaded Acton, greatly astonished at her knowledge of what he believed her ignorant. "Blight your fair prospects!" repeated Ellen, with indignant scorn: "Blight your fair prospects! Why not? Have you not blighted mine—not only temporally but eternally?" "But you know that was in the, excess of youthful passion, when the brain was hot." "And having cooled on my disgrace, the passion fled, you would say?" rejoined Ellen, with the utmost difficulty suppressing a burst of indignation. "Why, not exactly that, though something like it," answered Acton, mistaking the apparent tranquility of the other for something more real. "But come, let us settle this matter amicably, as two lovers should. You have a strong claim upon me, I admit; but I am wealthy, and will buy it up. By Jove! you shall be rich; and with riches, you know, come all the other creature comforts. Come, what say you?" It is impossible to describe the expression on the countenance of Ellen, as these heartless words escaped the lips of her perfidious lover. It was a curious mingling of scorn, hate, grief, self-reproach and remorse. In a moment, as it were, the scales had fallen from her eyes, and she beheld Acton Goldfinch the mean trifling villain he was. A villain, to some extent, it is true, she had always believed him; but she was unprepared for such cold-hearted baseness. He seemed no longer anxious to put her off with even false promises, but rather to let her understand she was a commodity to be trafficked with—to be bought and sold as a beast or slave. Hitherto, amid all the stormy passion of her ill-fated existence, there had been no period when the bea con-light of hope appeared completely extinguished. It had burned dim and dimmer— had been almost lost sight of in the mists of the distance—but still its vicinity could ever be traced, and by it her frail bark had been saved from destruction. Now a single breath had extinguished it, and she was left to grope her way in darkness. It is a terrible thing to feel utter desolation— to know your last hope is gone— that you have now nothing more cheerful to look to than death and the cold silent tomb! How it chills the heart, making the very blood that courses your veins like ice-bound streams, and your soul shrink within itself with a trembling, undefinable horror! Ellen made no loud demonstrations of anger or disappointment; but she looked fixedly at Acton, till his eyes, that at first encountered hers triumphantly, sank to the ground, and an awe, he in vain sought to shake off, held him spell-bound and speechless. "You have spoken," she said, in a voice so changed and sepulchral that its tones startled him;" you have, in a moment, turned to hate the love of one whose greatest fault has hitherto been that of loving you too well. Well, be it so; but take yourself hence at once and forever!— Henceforth I would forget, during the short period I may survive, I have ever seen one who bore the name of Acton Goldfinch— one whom I now hate with all the bitterness of my nature. Go, sir! begone! and let us never meet again, or I may be tempted to do what can never be undone!" "But, dear Ellen," pleaded Acton, "you surely will not follow to persecute me?— you will let me go my ways in peace?" "So far as this: I solemnly swear, before that Almighty God in whose presence ere long I expect to stand, that if in my power, I will expose you to Edith Morton, that she may be saved, if she will but take heed. Farther than this I care not" "You swear to do this?" cried Acton, starting up in rage. "I do." "Then, by—! you shall not!" he cried, seizing a silver hilted dagger that rested on the table. "Sooner than be so exposed by a dishonored thing, like yourself, I will let out your heart's blood!" and he made towards her, as if to strike, his countenance expressive of the blackness of his heart. Ellen showed no signs of fear, but calmly folding her arms on her breast, again fixed her dark, penetrating eye upon his. Acton, encountering that look, paused irresolute. "Fool!" she said, tauntingly; "for what
do you take me?" And then added sternly: "Begone, Acton Goldfinch—begone!" As he did not seem disposed to comply at once, she suddenly sprang forward, and ere he was aware her object, wrenched the weapon from his hand and wildly brandished it before his eyes. "It is my turn now," she exclaimed, triumphantly, as he took a step or two backwards in alarm. "Begone, I say! or, by my mother's soul, I strike this to your heart!" "I go," he said, hastily quitting the appartment and shutting the door behind him. "I go," he muttered again, to himself; "but I will have my revenge! She will expose me, eh?" he continued, biting his lips. "Expose me—make me the laughing-stock and gossip of the town! No, no, by —! she shall not; I will see her dead first;" and with these dark words, uttered by his heart as well as lips, he left the house. As for Ellen, as soon as he was gone, she turned, staggered to the settee, and throwing herself upon it, in a state of exhaustion, burst into tears. Poor girl! Her heart was now indeed desolate—her last hope had fled.
Bennett, Emerson - Oliver Goldfinch Page 9